


Transference

by presage_bloom



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Choking, Cunnilingus, Drunk Sex, F/F, High Heels, Masochism, Multiple Personalities, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, fic number 669 of the Stormlight Archive, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presage_bloom/pseuds/presage_bloom
Summary: “Shallan, can you tell me about some of your issues that brought you to me today?” Dr. Jasnah Kholin asked.Shallan sat in a beautiful room and a beautiful woman and thought that there was nothing she’d like less than to talk about her issues. Shallan had repeated herself so many times during this process: dead parents, sheltered, overworked. That’s the story she kept telling to everyone. Kept telling herself.-Modern day therapist AU
Relationships: Shallan Davar/Beryl, Shallan Davar/Jasnah Kholin
Kudos: 4





	Transference

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this is going, but at least have a semi explicit Shallan x Beryl scene
> 
> this was written because I wanted to be able to relate to some of Shallan's bad decisions. (did anyone else find the Ghostbloods REALLY boring? I found it hard to believe Shallan would be so fascinated with them and willing to do their bidding when they barely gave any answers or leads, and they just weren't a satisfying secret society either. like drink some blood, have some orgies, summon the ghost of the Lord Ruler, SOMETHING)

“Shallan, can you tell me about some of your issues that brought you to me today?” Dr. Jasnah Kholin asked. 

Shallan sat in a beautiful room and a beautiful woman and thought that there was nothing she’d like  _ less _ than to talk about her issues. Shallan had repeated herself so many times during this process: dead parents, sheltered, overworked. That’s the story she kept telling to everyone. Kept telling herself. Here, in this sunlit office with filled with plants and books, with the most glamorous woman she’d ever met (short dark red nails that glistened, intense, sultry lined eyes, tailored suit that looked painted on and yet professional, a scent of something spiced and blooming), Shallan did not want to open her veins and pour herself out . 

“I’m…” Shallan looked down at her hands, down at the elaborate rug, at the glossy table with the box of tissues. Watched her fingers, near blue at the ends, her skin glass-thin over the wrists. “I… I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety at the hospital. I’m on Wellbutrin and a sedative at night.” Shallan had not told the hospital psychiatrist about her other issues, and nor had she felt comfortable to do so with a hurried, irritable man that had tried to tell her she had bipolar disorder because Shallan was feeling irritable herself. 

“That sounds like you went to St. Jezrien’s. No one leaves there without a diagnosis of depression and anxiety.” Jasnah sat in her leather chair; behind her a shelf of dark houseplants. Shallan recognized a Persian Shield - bright black and violet. It somehow suited Jasnah. Maybe it was the eyes… 

“I know your diagnosis, Shallan. Tell me about you. Who are you?”

_ Well,  _ Shallan thought,  _ wouldn’t I like to know? _

“I moved to DC a few years ago and I work for the government. Applying for graduate school. I do art commissions on the side. My father died last year. My mother died when I was little. My family… has always had issues.” 

She looked up at Jasnah; looked into her lined lavender eyes. What would this beautiful, wealthy woman know of her issues? Would her full lips curl when Shallan told her about her mother’s hands around her neck? Shallan went back to studying her hands. So blue. Maybe she was anemic. “I’m helping my brothers financially right now, too. They get into trouble a lot.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. That sounds like a lot for a young woman to take on.” Jasnah said. “You must be under a lot of stress.” 

“You have no idea.” 

“How do you unwind?” 

Shallan laughed. “Uh, wine, mostly. Netflix. Sometimes drawing.”

“Tell me about your drawings. What kind of art do you do?” 

Shallan blushed. She did watercolors for pleasure - usually botany studies and illustration- but the bulk of her art (and profit) came from drawing furry porn. “Ah. You know. I was always doodling. I draw a lot of things. Digital, traditional. Figures and landscapes.” 

Jasnah studied her, perhaps reading the obvious lie on Shallan’s face. 

“What got you into art?” 

Shallan raised an eyebrow. Did therapists talk about art? Jasnah wasn’t going to ask about her family or job? What kind of therapy question was this? (The last time she’d seen a therapist regularly, she was ten and it was an Evangelist “counselor” who’d just told her to pray more and ask god for forgiveness.) 

“I… was always  _ drawn to it _ , as it were.” 

Jasnah gave her a begrudging smile. It wasn’t Shallan’s best pun, she’d admit. Why did Shallan have to say that? “I saw a little of your work from the hospital. It was good enough that the nurses were talking about it.” 

Shallan started. “You saw me in the hospital?”  _ In the hospital after I’d… I’d done that…  _

“Yes, on other business.” Jasnah rustled with some notes. “I found the drawing of the girl in the greenhouse fascinating. You know your plants quite well.” She gestured to her office. “I’m fond of plants myself.” 

Shallan barely remembered the drawing, only that she’d done it from one of her many unexplained Memories. “I have a photographic memory.” It was ironic, really. Picture perfect Memories she could not distinguish from a dream - just an image she had no attachment to. 

“Ah. That’s interesting. So, Shallan what are you hoping to get from therapy with me?” 

Shallan wanted to say,  _ you’ve read the police report, you know why I’m here, it was either treatment or jail.  _ Instead, she only answered that she was looking to lessen the stress in her life, manage the symptoms of her depression. 

“We can work on building some coping mechanisms for you. Most of the treatments I work in involve body work and mindfulness. Many people with difficult backgrounds have a hard time living in their body, connecting with their inner experiences.”

Living in her body. That was the exact opposite of what Shallan wanted to do with her life. She made a face. “That sounds awful.”

Jasnah smiled, with a brightness that reached her eyes. “Well. It seems we have our starting point.”

  
  


* * *

Dr. Jasnah Kholin. was one of the world’s leading trauma specialists, Shallan read, as she sat uncomfortably on the bus seat on the ride home. She had pioneered a body-mind treatment for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with a very high success rate, focusing as much on the interior sensations as the mind. 

Shallan wondered how she’d managed to land such a famous therapist. She’d suspected the case worker had felt a tug of sympathy for her - a strange man with white hair - when he’d read her background.

She felt a part of her mind rebelling against this. Therapy. The truth. Healing. There were things that even a therapist could not possibly deal with, there were things she’d done that were so  _ wrong -  _

Shallan counted ten heartbeats, breathing in. 

She was seeing Beryl. Shallan wouldn’t be able to become the woman she was so used to that evening. It took too long to straighten her hair, make up her face, develop the glow she required to manifest. She would only be able to put on a smile and some eyeliner, hike her pencil skirt up a little.

Shallan would dress up for her next appointment, she decided. 

* * *

Shallan arrived at the bar with five minutes to spare. It was a dingy, dark place with red lighting and graffiti’d bathrooms. Beryl would be in the back, drinking her usual - Sex on the Beach - and would have ordered a Rose for Shallan. Shallan felt the same glances from the bartenders and locals when she walked in, seeing a professional-looking woman in a blazer and skirt, probably wondering if she was a cop. Shallan had met Beryl through a vaguely spiritual event - Blood of the Ghosts, which seemed like a really strange name for a women’s full moon circle - but had only hooked up via tinder. 

Beryl sat in the booth with her bare legs displayed in the isle and her cigarette smoke greeting all who came by. Dark long hair tumbled out of an elaborate bun, with dark, almost auburn eyes. She wore a tight red dress and sharp-looking boots. Shallan couldn’t help but shudder; Beryl liked to dig her heels into her back and Shallan couldn’t wait. 

She sat down and gave Beryl her best winning smile. “Hello, Mistress.” 

“So what did you do today, Kitten?” 

Shallan blushed and looked around the dive bar. As always, there was never anybody from work, and nobody who looked like they cared in the slightest. She took a long sip of wine. 

“Ah… I…” Beryl didn’t know about the incident, or the hospital. Or, she knew that Shallan had gotten very sick for a few weeks, but nothing else. “I spoke with a famous doctor for work, I guess she’s working on some kind of alternative energy grant. She had this  _ beautiful  _ Persian Shield. The purple in the leaves were almost neon.” Shallan told her about the many varieties of Jasnah’s plants - variegated Strings of Hearts and white Monstera plants. 

“That sounds lovely, baby.” Beryl took Shallan’s hand. Beryl’s skin was soft and dark and warm, and her supple fingers held a strength Shallan’s could only envy. “You’ll have to show me your plants sometime, too.” 

* * *

Shallan looked up at Beryl from down on her knees. Beryl glistened in the dark of the bedroom, smelling organic and sweet, and Shallan lapped her up, with a delicious pointed heel in her back. She still had the Rose in her - three glasses - and every sensation was amplified and whirling. 

"Good girl." Beryl caressed her hair. "You're so good at that, baby."

Shallan breathed her in, revelled in her salt and sweat and soft dark down. "Of course I am."

“What do you want, Kitten?” 

Shallan’s head spun at Beryl’s soft words and she clenched. “You can hurt me a little more.”

Beryl dug her heel in a little bit more. “Like that?” 

The sharp sensation was a jab of pleasure to her. Shallan moaned. “Yes, but…”

“Anything you want, baby.” 

“Choke me.” She said, into Beryl’s dripping lips.

“What was that?”

Shallan took Beryl’s lovely tapered hands and put them to her neck. “Choke me.” Her words were fading, and Beryl seemed far away. 

The last thing she remembered of the evening was Beryl’s delicate palm on the side of her throat. 

**Author's Note:**

> originally, Shallan and Adolin were going to be engaged to add to the drama, but I was too lazy to figure out how Shallan could get away with having a therapist related to her fiance as well not having Adolin know the majority of the details of Shallan's mysterious crime under those circumstances. 
> 
> this is ultimately a fanfiction about trying to fuck your beautiful, unavailable MILF therapist, so no posh fiancé subplot. (I've never tried to sleep with a therapist, this is not *literally* personally relatable for me, but still more relatable than the fking ghost bloods. also beautiful unavailable MILFs hit me up.)


End file.
